


The Lanister's Lady

by OliveBranches



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Body Guard, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5599849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OliveBranches/pseuds/OliveBranches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The King's Hand marries Sansa Stark to Tyrion Lanister to secure the North, but Joffery decides the new couple deserve a pet, a Hound to be exact. Determined to protect Sansa as her new Sworn Shield, Sandor shadows the every move of the new Lady of Lanister, but living in the cage of his little Bird is maddening, and while her husband continues to find comfort in her handmaiden, Sansa begins to draw him closer and closer to temptation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shattered Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! this is my first fan fiction so any constructive criticism is welcome and I hope you enjoy!

The morning was still dawning in sickly oranges and pinks, yet Sandor had broken his hand in four separate places within its rising. He had been fulfilling his usual practices in the swords yard, sparing, swinging and heaving against imaginary opposition until his breath was labored and sweat pooled and made heavy stains against his linen shirt. This practice had ceased at the first lights, then he had rested in the sheds, running his sword against heavy leather so the forge ripples danced with the colours of the morning. 

The first break had been on the index knuckle of his right hand, and had been witnessed by a young squire. Olmund was the third son of a minor House. He was not yet old enough to grow out the blond stubble on his lip, but was wise enough to flee from a hound that growled and trembled as this one did. Sandor’s fierce scars had rippled with the flexing of his jaws, spasms twitched his brow, and his eyes held evidence of sour wine and fury. Every minute or so he would rise furiously to his full size, stretching arms bound in roped muscles and stride towards the door. Only to suddenly halt, long sword raised in his hand and chest heaving with seemingly causeless adrenaline. For a split second he was a warrior poised for battle and blood, woe be to his opposition. Then he let out a bark from deep within his chest and slammed his first into the stonewall of the shed, resulting in a crack that set the boy’s teeth on edge. Then the dog would sink, spirit and bone. His ugly long sword would lower with sudden weight and the warrior’s stance would lose its strength of resolution. The hound would slink back from the unknown foe; he would curl in on his sword sharpening, tail between his legs once again. And so the process would continue, as again the wounded dog would gradually become irate again, decide on an action and cower from the deed itself. 

His hand was broken in four places when the hound had caught sight of Olmund peeping his peculiar behavior from an ajar door he had thrown his dagger with such force the door slammed shut in the squire’s face. The boy had run off with a smarting nose to match the blemishes that ran along his cheeks. Now truly alone, the Hound buried his head in shaking hands, as the adrenaline combined bloodlust, shame and agonizing grief in his veins. Such a concoction had been brewing in his blood since he stood beside the Boy King and his Grandfather Hand, stoically preparing himself to endure their discussions of kingdoms and war. Yet the first words out of Lord Tywin’s mouth where the three that could send the Hound’s blood boiling and awake a particularly sharp interest in a conversation he was expected to ignore.

“Lady Sansa Stark” Lord Tywin said, “Is a pressing ambiguity on our reclamation of the kingdom.”

Joffery had brought a bloated lip into a sneer, and leaned back into the carved chair, draping his crimson clad leg over its armrest. “Well I’m not betrothed to the wolf bitch anymore, let’s give her the same mercy we gave her traitor father and teach the realm a lesson in respect.”

At this Sandor clenched his knuckles white, if they decided such a fate for the little bird he knew that he would not leave until their red blood mingled with their red finery and he would steal his little bird away, no songs or questions this time.

But the older Lanister’s brow flushed with anger at this retort and Sandor knew the girl was safe, from death at least.

“You’re reactions are too heated, Your Grace,” Tywin smiled tightly, “her hand secures the North, and her Lord Husband shall become Lord of Winterfell, we must not let that power waste.”

“So what then?” Joffery said.

“We need her married to an ally, whom we can trust will remain loyal.” Tywin pretended to muse.

“What if we married her to a Lanister?” said the Boy King straightening, the pride of the idea glowing off him as though it had not been spoon fed to him like a babe fresh from its’ mother’s teat.

“Excellent Your Grace, I shall see it arranged myself.” Tywin had cooed as smooth as velvet, making to leave the chamber, “I will take my leave of you Your Gra-”

“I want her married to the Imp.” Tywin froze, hand on door, “I want to see the wolf bitch and the imp betrothed, I want to hand her away where her traitor father would have, I want to laugh at their fool’s wedding!” 

Joffery had screamed in high-pitched boy’s laughter, and the Hound had wondered how the Lanister Lord would woo him out of this sadistic concept, but to Sandor’s horror his brow was furrowed in thought, and the Hound could tell he saw deeper possibility in such a union than ritual humiliation. 

“An excellent choice Your Grace,” Tywin said slipping from the room.

The Hound had not heard much in the hours since then. 

Only clanging bells and piercing notes, and a battle within his mind that raged him through the night, his practices and into the training shed.

He sat with his long sword in his lap and his mind had circled over and over, always coming to the same verdict, and always deciding against it the moment he moved. Would he break the gilded cage and snatch the singing bird from her perch? Would he save Sansa Stark? He pensively stroked the blade, letting the repetitive, metallic hiss fill his ears as he thought. He thought of Joffery’s sadistic smiles, and the bruises that stained her snowy skin deeper than spiced wine. He thought of the icy blankness her once doe like eyes had acquired, and how much she had suffered to learn to sing so sweetly. He tried to fool himself into thinking maybe they would realize the idiocy of choosing the Imp. Yet this thought held hollow hope, for a Lanister is a Lanister, short or tall. He thought of every Lanister he knew, and how each blonde haired, preening prat would destroy her in his own unique way.

Bugger the Stranger if I’ll see her married to any one of those lecherous Lions

 

With her screams ringing in his ears he would grasp the long sword’s handle and rise, preparing to let it taste as much blood as need be until he could grab the little bird and run. He would stride towards the coming battle and then-

She didn’t go with you before, why should she now?

The night of green fire would return so vividly that he could still smell the smoke of hell fire, death, and Sansa. Her tears had reflected the green the seemed to stain the air itself, so they rolled like jewels down her cheeks.

“I don’t want to die,” she had whispered to him, “Please, Sandor.”

That was all it had taken, he had left her his bloodied white cloak, and decided to take her song to the grave. When he burst into the battle lead by the half man he had planned to send as many men to the Stranger before he met the god himself. But, to his great surprise, Sandor Clegane did not die that night. But it was the fearless return to the fight that had saved his own head being taken for cowardice, and his bird had saved him that night when he had begged to save hers.

But it was not her deed that stuck in his mind; it was that the bird had said ‘no’. She did not want to run into the woods with the burned beast, she had left her fate to his ability to sway the victory of a battle, and sat in her cage whilst he did so.

Stupid fucking Dog 

He was back to the beginning, slinking away from the rescue she would refuse, back to his inner turmoil. Why would Lady fucking Stark choose one beast over another other? The little beast or the Tall One, the blooming lily of the North had found herself claimed by the broken and fouled, whilst she sung of fair knights in far away kingdoms that would never come. 

Well fuck that and fuck her

But Sandor felt the shame in his chest as his calloused, dark hands polished shining metal, hands that could never touch skin as smooth, pale and soft as wirewood. Hands that could never save her from the hands of Lanisters hoping to soil her.

The sun had risen now and had shed its technicolour over greying sea clouds and blue streaks of sky. There was movement and voices drifting down from the stone towers. His little Bird would be waking soon, ignorant of the fate he had tormented over for the night’s span. The adrenaline rose once again in his blood and this time his memories did not hold him at the door jam, and he strode over cobblestone to the guilded cage that held lions and songbirds alike. He would stay with her, even if she flinched from him and the memories of that green night. He would stand by her, as she became Lady of Lanister, and protect her from the shadows. If that was all he could ever have of something as pure of Sansa Stark he would take it, it was a dog’s lot, but that was all he deserved.


	2. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets married and receives a unusual wedding gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank for reading! and any comments/criticisms would help me out to no end!

When Sansa appeared in the Sept door, haloed by morning sun, Sandor had allowed himself to imagine that she stood there for him. His life had been full of such imaginings since she came. That she blushed and sang for him, her smiles, her glances, and the way she did her hair were for his attention. These where the lies Sandor used to comfort himself, it was rubbish obviously, because before the Septon stood the Half Man looking as sick as Sandor felt.

‘Good’ he thought, ‘At least he has the bloody dignity to look sick, more than I expected from a Lannister.’

“What are you doing?’ The Wolf Girl said, the anger in her little voice quacking around the Sept. The King stood smugly offering his arm to her.

“Your father is gone,” He said, “As the Father of the Realm, it is my duty to give you away to your husband.”  
Sansa faced the Sept again and placed her hand on his arm. They began to walk down through the crowd, not a smile greeting them nor congratulating her. Surrounded by enemies the little bird’s hands did not shake, and her eyes held a blank stare that chilled Sandor to the bone. As she ascended the stairs she dropped Joffrey’s arm as soon as possible. Then stood beside her betrothed, who, Sandor noticed with satisfaction, looked as if he would empty his breakfast on the Septon in any moment.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection”

The Lannister crimson cloak clashed against her Tully auburn hair, dulling it. If anyone else other than Sandor noticed, they too kept their mouth shut. The Septon looked down, over his massive chin, and began to drone the words of matrimony that rang false to the union in front of him.

“Your grace, your grace, my lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever...”

The ceremony lasted hours of blessed oils and morose speeches of monogamy. Every second Sandor stood poised on the balls of his feet, restraining the urge to rip the lion’s pelt from her shoulders and drag her from the Sept.

 

***  
The Little Bird and the Half Man sat at a long table made of solid ebony, stacked high with a feast the could feed all the starving of Flea’s Bottom. Yet the Groom stuck solidly to his cups and the bride pushed a single crust of pie around and around her plate without ever eating it. Sandor couldn’t take his eyes off of her, and the room and drunk enough and dark enough for them not to notice. So he let himself look, and admire the bride of another man. She’d shrugged off the Lannister cloak with no one seeing a half hour ago, and the few curls that escaped from that ludicrous hair hung heavy against her neck. Her lily skin had flushed from the heat and the wine, and anger, Sandor guessed. 

‘Good,’ he thought, ‘Birds that are angry are awake to the truth.’

Sansa turned to her now Lord husband and spoke to him with her eyes averted. He drunkenly gestured with a grin, consenting to whatever request she had made. Rising carefully the girl met with her whore of a handmaiden and made to slip out the door behind the high table. Sandor moved to follow them,

“Wait!” said Joffrey, “You can’t just leave without my present to you dearest Sansa!” The girl stopped half way up the steps, her eyes flicking between her husband seated at the feast, and the King grinning at her from the dancing ground. The malicious glint in his eye turned the warmth of his words cold and the court held a collective breath. "Well come here then, the both of you!" he said, grinning around at the faces of the court as Sansa slowly walked the marble floors. Her steps and her husbands stumbling ringing out around the suspenseful silence of the waiting crowd. “I was deliberating what a newly wed couple such as my uncle and aunt could possibly need to start their new lives together, and then I realized! They need a pet”

Sansa was swaying slightly and as pale as an Other. She knew to expect humiliation and pain, and steeled herself, setting her shoulders back and gracefully approaching the King as if it were one of her bloody knights waiting to dance. Sandor hated himself for being useless to defend her on her wedding day, as he had been on every other day.

“Lady Sansa,” Joffrey Squealed as she drew up in front of him, ‘I give you The Hound as your new family pet!” 

Fuck.

Sandor could not and would not move from the shadows. Court eyes swivelled around in search of his scarred face with whispers flying from wall to wall. The boy king, for whatever reason, had always excluded Sandor in his dealings with Sansa Stark. But now he stood giggling in his red and gold silks as his court stared in open-mouthed horror at his words. 

“Well Clegane? What are you standing about for?” Joffrey frowned. Sandor forced himself into motion, jolting his legs forward in unnatural stumbles. The boy gave him a cursory glance over, summarizing years of service in a squint.

“I free you from your duty to the King,” Joffrey rushed out the formalities of dismissal, “you no longer shall serve and protect. You are stripped on the White Cloak and all it stands for.” For a moment the joy swept out of the boy and disgust rested on his face, “As if I could have a King’s Guard as craven as you to protect me.”

So the Boy King had not forgotten Sandor’s words to him at the Backwater.

The Hound could not meditate on this long; his mind was as slow as if he had drowned it in Dornish Sour. He could not look at her; he already knew she’d look scared out of her buggering mind. He didn’t need another memory of her face like that.

Tyrion looked at the spectacle helplessly, his mouth set in a grim line of suffering. Even the members of the court had paled, muttering to each other with stern glances. 

‘They can keep their buggering smiles when she’s being beaten, but swear a dog to her and its time to bloody weep.’ Thought Sandor menacingly.

“Come, Come Dog,” Joffrey quipped with annoyance, “Kneel before the Lady and Swear your Sword!”

The hound bowed his head and moved towards the bewildered Stark. Head hung low as to not see her face, or show her his. He sank to one knee in a clamour of armour and the slink of mail. He drew his sword from its sheath and laid the ugly blade before her yellow silk slippers. He knew this ritual was humiliation for the both of them, but he could not help the senserity that seeped into his words as he spoke them,

“In the witness of the Seven, I Sandor of House Clegane, second son of Willum Clegane, pledge my life, sword and Shield to you, Lady Sansa of House Star-Lannister." he winced, "I swear to protect you, to watch you, to guide you from this breath until my last breath.”

A silence hung over the wedding party, interrupted by the fidgety excitement on the king’s sadistic joy. “Well? Well Lady Sansa? Answer him!”

She looked down at Sandor in silence, it hung between them, heavy as fog and finally forced Sandor to raise his head and to meet her eye. With him kneeling she was at eye level with him. The steely determination in her eyes surprised him, but not as much as the candid manner with which she replied to his oath,

“In the witness of the Seven, I Lady Sansa of House Lannister accept your oath, to have you with me as guide and protector, from this breath until my last breath.” At her last word the wolf’s spirit dropped from her and her eyes dropped from his. The Boy King was clutching at his stomach with laughter. Sandor saw Tyrion glaring at Joffrey, gnashing his teeth in fury as he stumbled down from the towards him.  
‘That man is too drunk not to do something bloody foolish,’ 

He saw the little bird drop her fingertips against Tyrion’s shoulder in caution as he drew up beside her.

Joffrey continued squealing in delight, “Look at them! The most ugly family in the Seven Kingdoms! The Imp, The Traitor and The Hound.” It was at this moment Joffrey realized he laughed alone, and flushed red, “Do you not think so?” he said to the crowd, who quickly began tittering with false laughter. His worm lips pulled into a grin and he turned to the newly weds,

“Time for the bedding ceremony!”

“There will be no bedding ceremony,” slurred Tyrion.

“Uncle, where is your respect for tradition?” Joffrey said, “Come everybody! Pick her up and carry her to her wedding bed! Get rid of her gown; she won’t be needing it any longer! Ladies attend to my uncle, don’t worry; he’s not very heavy! Come along!”

“There will be no bedding ceremony,” repeated Tyrion,

“There will be if command it!” Joffrey sneered.

He started towards the King, fist raised threateningly before his face, “Then you’ll be fu- ”

“Your Grace,” rasped The Hound, “Let me see to her dress, and no woman in this room wants to undress the half man unless you have well paid whores hidden in here.”

The King cackled and cried, “Yes, quite right! Let Lady Sansa’s new dog tear at her clothes! Get her fit and ready for my uncle!”

The Hound gave her a warning glance and jerked his head towards the door to follow him. The Imp drunkenly leaning on her arm, the Little Bird walked after him. Sandor could feel her stare heavy on his back, carrying through plate, mail and boiled leather. He had promised he would never let anyone hurt her on that night; how the fuck was he to protect her from marriage?


	3. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone!  
> This is a shorter, early chapter to thank you all so much for the response so far!  
> xx

Sansa ‘s heart flew into a panic as she opened her eyes to the unfamiliar, crimson canopy of her bed. She stilled herself, pretending to sleep as she languished in the memories of the night before. She has spent the whole feast staring at the crust of her pie with a hummingbird’s heart, mind crashing with thoughts of the bedding ceremony. Yet, at the moment of humiliation, her new lord husband had refused her. Nothing of his actions correlated with the wise words of Septa Mordane on the subject of the marriage bed. Sansa was utterly lost. Yet it was not her unconsummated marriage that unsettled her. It was her sense of loss over a friend she wasn’t utterly shore she even had.

She lay on her bed contemplating how she should pretend to wake up, what she would even say to the man sleeping on her evening couch. 

‘Chirp your pretty songs,’ growled a voice deeper than her own, ‘you’re caged all the same’

She was spared such a performance however, as the heavily carved door slammed open with such a force that it crashed against the granite wall and bounced closed again. The handmaiden with the foreign accent stood huffing. She looked like the avenging goddesses of far ranging religions in history books. Sansa quickly took the opportunity to scramble from the bloodless sheets and straighten herself as much as she could before Tyrion truly awoke.

“I have brought you breakfast”

There was a fleshy thump and Sansa blushed as she realised Shae had pulled her bed gown from underneath Tyrion’s head. She had placed it there after he passed out against the couch the night before. Riddled with guilt at his wooden sleeping place, she had tried to offer him some comfort by folding her gown into a pillow for him. Though now she felt hot embarrassment rise to the tips of her ears.

“You really should knock,” mumbled Tyrion, rubbing his hand against his hungover and now bruised head.

‘As though there had been anything she could have chanced seeing,’ Thought Sansa as Shae wrapped the bed gown around her, gentling pulling her hair over her collar. Shae knew as much the moment she dragged back the sheet of the bed and saw nothing but the soft crumpling Sansa had made during a fitful sleep. Sansa buried herself in honeyed figs and goat’s cheese to avoid any knowing glances from the maid. 

Tyrion look sheepishly at Sansa, and she at him. Both tensed as Shae uncovered the pervious night's happenings in her duties. Everything unspoken hung more heavily than the heat in the room and Sansa felt stabbing longing for ice blasts. She considered the likelihood that the heat would turn her mad before her marriage did, and in that moment it was a possibility. The heat of the king’s landing clung at her hair and her clothes, sitting them heavily against her skin. Sansa wanted the warmth of Winterfell fires, dry and soothing, strong heat that fought strong cold. The only time she had felt that heat in years was the night that burned green outside her window. When the blaze’s ambers had floated around her room like fireflies and he had waited for her in the shadows. That was the night the hound came to save her, but she sent him back into the battle with a song in hopes of saving him. She had know that Joffrey would win, simply because she knew she didn’t have the luck for him to die. Tyrion had set the water ablaze hours before, along with Stanis’ fleet. The sounds of men dying drifted around her room still.

She had been scared by the Queen’s whisperings to her, scared by Joffrey’s wrath, and scared by the echoes of death. In that Green light the Hound offering her salvation had looked like another opportunity for pain. She had only thought of the agony of losing him if he left King’s landing alone and the pain of seeing him executed if he tried to leave and was captured. So selfishly she had looked into his face and begged him to save his own life and return to battle, to save them both by winning this fight.

But now it was all for naught. She had lost him anyway. Joffrey had wanted humiliation for craven behaviour but had in fact provided salvation. As though the hound would be fool enough to remain in king’s landing now, to act out his mummer's oath. No, the Hound was no fool, and Sansa was shore her only ally in King’s landing had run the moment his chains where broken. But this time he had not thought to take her.

‘Stupid little bird’ she thought, ‘I should have flown when I still could.’

Shae strode away from the bed with the bunched but bedclothes, a look of fierce determination on her face. She said none of the customary words of farewell to her Lord and Lady, but simply strode past them on her way out. However her path was halted as she opened the door to leave. Barricading her stood a wall of steel and mail filling the doorjamb.   
Sansa stood transfixed with relief and mortification.  
The Hound was outside her door. Had he been there all night? Had he heard?  
One startled glance into his fog grey eyes told her everything.  
‘Oh gods, he knows.’


	4. Outside the Chamber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! Please don't be silent, your comments make my day!

Sandor knew everything. The stonewalls of Kings Landing passed sound as though they where hollow, which Sandor had a strong suspicion they where. Vary’s birds had to get their whispers somehow, though tonight it was the Hound’s little bird that was being spied on. 

“Do you think that’s wise My Lord?” Her voice had come muffled through the wooden door, but was clear enough for every muscle in his body to tense, what was that bastard doing?

“Please Sansa, call me Tyrion,” 

“Do you think that’s wise, Tyrion?”

“Nothing was ever wiser,”

Their voices had descended into quieter mumblings that fused her chirps and his slurs into to incoherent music. He heard nothing for a long while. There was suddenly the sound of the clinking of metal that Sandor recognized as heavy jewellery. Sandor’s breath went out of him. He strained to hear the soft slithers of silk ties being undone and the thuds of heavy skirts to the floor. His heart pounded in his rugged chest and his heart beat white noise in his ears. His hand was on the hilt of his long sword and the other wrapped in a tight first on the door handle. He was as ready as he had ever been to draw blood, but what right did he have to interrupt this barbarous performance? 

'Every fucking right, you’re her shield'

But he could not shield her from this sort of attack, not an attack sworn by the Septon and the Gods. Not an attack that she had accepted when she accepted the Lannister’s cloak for her own.

Sandor couldn’t take it anymore. The images of his gentle bird exposed to the Lannister’s lecherous gaze, of what would come after… and he thought he could just sit out here in the corridor like a dog in the rain? While the other man destroyed the only purely good thing Sandor had come across for so many, many years?

'Stop him.'

The hound pulled up to his full size, pulled his lip back over his teeth, and began to open the door.

“Stop!” The Imp said. The Hound froze, how the buggering hells had he known he was there? 

“My lord?” She answered. They hadn’t noticed him, but Sandor froze to hear their words.

“I can’t, I could, but I won’t,” The Lannister muttered.

“But your Lord father…” her voiced softened and was lost in the walls.

“If he wants someone to get fucked I know where he can start,” The half man’s voice rose to a shout and Sandor gritted his teeth against the image of the little bird’s fear. She loved soft voiced knights and high sung music, the Lannister’s voice grated with fury. 

The sound of footsteps was cut off by a soft thump and the grating of furniture moving against the stone floor. For heavy seconds there was silence inside the bedroom and in the doorway, and then low, soft snores rang through the quiet. The Groom had passed out quickly in his drink. The bride was safe. Sandor slowly peeled his fingers off the doorknob one by one; the Half Man had more of a moral conscious than most. If the little bird had been married to any other of the fools in King’s landing she would have been a properly married woman by now.  
Sandor slowly leant back against the door and slid down it, calming his battle fury. He respected the Lannister, no matter how much it pained him to admit it. Sandor wondered if he would have had the same restraint, doubting himself. But then he remembered how she had looked at him that night. Blue eyes swimming in salt tears, begging for salvation. A man would do anything to prove himself for those eyes; hells, Sandor had run into flames for them. He had sworn his life to them. No wonder the whoring Half Man was acting so valiant tonight. The image of the Little Bird looking at the imp with the same, hopeful eyes she gave him caused an untamable lust for hitting something. The unbridled wave of fury swept over Sandor and he had half a mind to run in and gut the man in his sleep. 

The thought had occurred to him that he could run, but he didn’t even finish the idea before he rejected it. Everyone expected it of him, he knew. They wanted him to dismiss his oath as a fool’s performance and run off to join the raiding and raping with the other houses sworn to Lannister. But that was Gregor, not him, though not many bothered to distinguish. 

It looked to be another sleepless night meditating on thoughts of her. But this time his future was clearer, he was hers now, in the eyes of the seven and the bloody king. 

>>>>

He had woken to a handmaiden poking his boot with the toe of her slipper. He gave her credit where it was due, not many would be brave enough to wake him. She however looked unfazed, if not slightly furious, at the sight of him sleeping outside her lady’s chamber. Burdened with a tray pilled high with more foods than either of the newly weds could hope to eat, she was in no mood to wait.

“Get out of my way,” She said, voice think with an accent from across the seas.

Sandor gave her a dark glance and did not move, instead straightening his back and proceeding to crack every joint that he could think to. To his surprise she simply reached past him to the doorknob, anchored a heel against his back and, by taking him unawares, kicked him forward away from the door. She threw open the door with considerable force and strode in, the door bouncing against the interior wall then back, slamming in Sandor’s face. He had seen brief seconds of the room inside, and neither the Bird nor the half man.

‘Where in the buggering hells did the Little Bird get a Street Cat handmaiden such as that?’

Grumbling, Sandor heaved himself off the floor, wincing at the strains in his muscles after two restless nights. Swinging his arms around him he thought of what he would say, if anything. He wondered if the Bird had even thought of him since he had sworn his oath. 

‘Stupid Dog, ugly thoughts like you don’t belong in pretty minds like that’

Sandor began to pace as he heard the scuffling of steps and muted words from inside the bedchamber. Then panic hit him, that Handmaiden would be collecting the sheets to be brought to the Maester and the Queen. She would be collecting the newly wed’s clean, bloodless sheets. Sandor felt bile rising at the thought of what Joffrey would do when he found out she was still a maiden after her marriage night. He strode to the door with intent, and then realized he had nothing to say. There was no solution to this problem that didn’t give Sandor the unquenchable desire to gut someone. He was spared a decision though, as the door opened before him and he found the Street Cat almost running into him, arms piled high with the sheets of a maiden.

Then he saw her as he had never seen her before. 

She stood in a lavender silk bed gown, long, firey hair loose and messed with sleep. Sandor had known it would look more perfect this way, released of that ludicrous court braiding. The image was spoilt however by the defeated way she stood, closing in on herself, and when she met his eyes with those cool pools of blue he felt he’d failed her all over again. Ignoring the Street Cat attempting to push past him he stepped into the room and spoke to her directly for the first time since he swore her his life.

“Hello, Little Bird,” He rasped.


	5. A truce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy xx

Tyrion, for all the intelligence he credited himself with, could not fathom just why Sandor Clegane stood outside his door. Yet there he stood, blocking Tyrion’s lover from exiting the bedchambers of Tyrion’s wife. Surely there was only so much surrealism one could take this early in the morning, and defiantly only so much when you where as hung over as he was.

Faint images of the night before swirled up through sluggish thoughts, the King humiliating the pair of them, bringing the Hound into the mix this time, Joffrey’s maniac laughter and Tyrion’s unfiltered fury. The King dismissing his sworn shield, Clegane on his knees before Sansa… wait, surely that last one wasn’t right.

Oh Seven Hells, Clegane was sworn to Sansa.  
But what in the name of the seven was he doing fulfilling an oath made in a fool’s performance?

Gods, it was just. Too. Early.

“Hello, Little Bird,” The Hound growled. Tyrion turned to his wife and was even more confused by the look on her face. He expected humiliation, fear, even anger but her face for the life of him looked filled with relief.

“Hello,” she murmured.

“Get out of my way,” Shae hissed at him, “And it is not right for you to be seeing the Lady like this, wait outside.” 

Tyrion expected a ruff rebuffing from the man, but he simply met her eyes and stepped back wards, turning to lean against the wall outside the chamber. Shae stormed through using her foot to slam the door shut again. Sealing the Lord and Lady inside the chamber, and leaving their servants out of it.

“We can trust her,” Sansa said, eyes averted from him to her breakfast, “She won’t tell anyone.”

Ah, she thought that he cared about Shae seeing their sheets. She thought Tyrion might doubt Shae’s loyalties to her, if only she knew.

He cleared his throat, “Yes, I’m sure we can.” 

He stood from the couch, stretching up and letting the bones in his back and arms crack as he twisted this way and that to release them, then let his body flop down as he shuffled towards the breakfast table. Sansa scrunched up her nose at the sound of cracking bone in what Tyrion could not help notice was a very fetching way. Tyrion examined the tray that Sansa was picking at, honeyed figs stuffed with cream, sticky fruit breads with fresh peaches, fresh sour dough, boiled blue eggs and spiced sausage sitting in oil. His stomached heaved and he pressed his lips into a thin line as the bile went back down his throat. It was too soon into his hang over to even look at this. Sansa’s face revealed the same distaste, though she had not drunk even remotely enough to leave her ill. Tyrion felt a wave of self-loathing knowing her marriage sickened her, not her wine. 

“Well I may-,” He started, “Well I might just go to the bath house. Wine never does smell as sweet on my breath as it does in a cup.” He forced a small smile at his joke and she did the same. 

“My Lady,” he said giving a small bow and turning on his heal. Large mistake, as he head spun and the room rocked off balance. Trying not to give away his state to Sansa he mustered a few lopsided steps and made it to the door. Giving it a heave he fell through the door way into the cool, fresh air of the corridor. He gulped it in as the door fell shut behind, not realizing until now how trapped he had felt. Now he was outside the chamber his decision was final, he had not bed his unwilling wife, no consummation hade taken place, and his father would gut him.

“Lannister,” A voice said behind him. He spun again (mistake, mistake, loss of vision, pounding head ache) and when he vision steadied itself on Clegane, who stood looking down at him with an unveiled fury contorting his already ugly face. 

“Clegane,” Tyrion coughed, “I must say I am, ah – surprised, to see you here.” 

“I see no reason for you to be.”

“Well,” Tyrion said, looking up at the man through a quizzically raised brow, “I did think that with a royal dismissal you may have left for better prospects in the country, not attempt to fulfill a life vow you where clearly forced into.”

“Do you not want me near your pretty new wife, Lannister?”

“No Clegane, this isn’t a matter of jealousy, or even worry for her safety with you, I simply don’t understand you having any motivation to stay.” Tyrion reasoned.

“There are many things you don’t understand about me or I you, lets keep it that way.”

Tyrion remained silent and peered at the larger man. Finally The Hound let out an exasperated breath that was both a sigh and a growl.

“The Bird needs protection from your nephew, and me being here is the first chance that she has ever been given at true protection. She needs someone who could stop him, do you think you could?” The Hound did not have to mention that name of the King for Tyrion to know all to well what he was talking about. When she was first stripped and beaten in the court for her brother’s crimes there had been outraged whispers in the court, now such humiliation was common. Tyrion had stayed in hand against her the first time, though in reflection he did remember Clegane in some way assisting her.

“I have stopped him before.” He mused.

“Next time you won’t be enough.”

Tyrion knew it was true, the last time he had intervened in Sansa’s punishment Joffrey had relented out of shock, and he was younger then, a boy. Now he knew his desires, knew his power, and understood Tyrion to be an empty threat against his Queen Mother and Hand Grandfather. Perhaps Clegane was right, Sansa needed brawn, not brains, to protect her now. However beneficial his presence was to Sansa, this still did not reveal Clegane’s incentives or intentions in remaining. Gods, his head! Why did people insist on complicating his life when he had the worst hangovers?

“Well then, I think we’ve come to a point of mutual understanding.”

The taller man let out a bark of laughter, “And what would that be, Half Man?”

“The importance of Sansa’s safety. I won’t claim to understand why you are here, and I don’t expect you to understand my actions either. But we both work to keep her safe, agreed?”

Sandor studied him for a moment, and then slowly nodded, “Aye.”

“Well then, I’ll take my leave of you, I’m off to the bath house.” Said Tyrion before attempting a second time to seek out the bathhouse to relieve and cleanse himself of the previous night. Oh Mother, help him, how his head was pounding.


	6. A womanly approach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! thank you so much for all your kind words and sorry its been so long! I'm in year 12 (senior year) and the work load is insane! but here is some sansan goodness to keep us all going, enjoy!

He sat in the hall waiting, feeling damn like the dog he was. Heaving out a heavy sigh Sandor ran a hand over his face. What would he say to her? Their brief greeting had been thoroughly interrupted and he was in no way awares to how she felt about him being there. Sandor wasn’t sure if he could deal with the shame of being sent away. Not by her. Not when he’d only just seen her with her loose hair falling over her shoulders, and her eyes still foggy from sleep. That was too beautiful an image to show him before casting him from her life all together. Wasn’t it?

…

Sansa sat is the center of the large feather bed with her legs crossed, staring at the patch of stonewall beside the door, where he was. She knew he was there, she had heard the muffled sound of voices when Tyrion left. 

Pinching the bridge of her nose she was suddenly aware of how trapped she was. In her lord husband’s room she had no clothes but her wedding dress to put on, not even an equipped vanity to start her morning ablutions. She scampered off the bed and pulled her lavender bed gown more tightly around her. She couldn’t very well go to talk to him looking like this, her hair looked practically wild and the bed gown showed far too much of her figure. No, the hound wouldn’t appreciate such a view, she thought. At a loss Sansa sat down again and began to comb her hands through her hair, gently working any knots she found until her hair hung in a glossy curtain. A self-conscious knock echoed against the wood of her door, followed by three loud ones.

“Little bird?” his gruff voice called, “We need to talk.” Sansa let out a squeak and sprung off the bed in such a hurry all the work on her hair was undone. She ran across the tiles and grabbed to handle. She would not let herself be embarrassed by her disheveled state, so as she pulled the bolt loose and opened the door a few inches.

“...Yes?” She said,

“Open the door,” he said, "I can't bloody talk to you through this door."

“No!" she said crossly, "I'm not dressed, you can’t see me like this, just, speak through the crack.”

He let out a low chuckle that held too much darkness to be humour. “Fine, if that’s the way of it.” His voice carried through the small gap and she knew he would be leering if she could see him. A silence followed that he seemed content to leave empty. 

After a few pregnant moments Sansa burst and blurted, “Why did you stay?” The question had been haunting her since she saw him through that door way. Disbelief and apprehension mingled inside her so intensely that she felt she would cry if he left now. If he'd raised her hopes just to dash them by leaving. That would be too cruel, even for him.

“Do you want me to go?” he growled, “Say it girl and I will.”

“No!” she said quickly, letting too much of her fear leak into her voice, “no, please, you can’t leave.”

Another few heart beats and his answer came back softer then she had ever heard his deep voice sound, “I won’t then, not if you want me to stay.”

Sansa heart stumbled in beats she could hear in her ears. What was that? Had she really asked him to stay so out rightly? Yes, yes she had. But more to the point he had accepted, not in dark humour or rolling anger but in a way she had only seen once before. She considered widening the crack in the door to see his face, to see if it was the same as it had been that night…

“What are you doing?!”Shae yelled down the corridor, accented by anger now too. Sansa heard the slink of metals as the hound hurriedly withdrew from the door, she listened for his voice, but he remained silent. Shae burst into the room dragging the door shut behind her before Sansa could catch his face. Her handmaiden’s arms where laden with layers of skirts and gown and a wooden chest that rattled as she walked.

“I leave you alone for just a few moments and you can’t sit still for that time?” she snapped, dumping her collection next the mirror. Sansa felt like a scolded child, but didn’t know what she had done wrong. Shae was fuming, sending heated glares the patch of wall Sansa had been staring wistfully at. 

“You’d be wise to be as uncontroversial as possible Sansa,” Shae said gesturing her wildly as she shook out underskirts.

“They’re nothing wrong with having a conversation,” snapped Sansa childishly as she removed her night things, leaving her bare to the humid morning air. 

“There is with that man.” Shae muttered as she pulled a silk slip over Sansa and holding out petticoats for her to step into.

“Well,” Sansa said as Shae shimmied the skirts into place, “He’s my shield now, we’ll have to talk, and no one would think that it was controversial then.” 

Shae pursed her lips and gave an unnecessarily tight pull at the ties of the skirts. 

“Ouch! That hurt Shae” Sansa reprimanded

Shae sniffed, ignoring her complaints. She began shaking out a sky blue wrap dress, heavily embroidered with intricate flora and fauna in gold thread. 

“That isn’t mine,” Sansa said frowning, all her dresses where years old apart from her wedding gown. This one looked unworn and expensive, the soft blue shimmering with woven silver that complimented the golden swallows that swooped across the neckline.

“It is now,” Shae said as she held it out for Sansa to slip her arms through the cap sleeves, “It’s a gift from Lady Margaery, she said that as a married woman you can no longer wear the clothes of a child. You are a woman, wedded and bedded and will have to act like one,” Shae gave her a meaningful look, warning Sansa that she could not talk about her true wedding night, Sansa’s lying was to start here.

“Oh, o-of course, right,” Shae’s pursed lips told Sansa she would need to improve her ability to protect the truth. She was distracted however when she felt Shae fastening the golden ties of the bodice, yet still felt the air against her sternum. In horror she looked down to see that her dress slid from her neck and plunged down between her breasts before it began to overlap and join at her waist, revealing a large amount of her snowy chest. 

“Good gods I’m practically naked Shae!” She shrieked as she covered herself with her hands and squeezed her eyes shut in embracement, they’d laugh at her for sure in this. All of them, the court, Joffrey, just another stupid little bird in clothes too womanly for her.

“No, you look at me Sansa,” Shae gripped her shoulders with such ferocity that Sansa’s eyes flew open to see Shae’s honey eyes at level with hers, “Lady Magaery has offered you an opportunity with this dress Sansa. When you see the future queen do you think she is naked? Do you?” Sansa softly shook her head, “What do you see?” prodded Shae.

“A woman, a beautiful woman.” Sansa whispered,

“That’s right, she uses her strengths as a woman to get what she wants, to get power. You can do this too. What happened last night has proven to them you are woman enough. But how you act will determine if they laugh at you or respect you is that understood?” Sansa nodded, recalling what Cerci had told her. "Tears aren't a woman's only weapon, the best one is between your legs..."

“You will keep your head up and your expression neutral,” Shae told her, keeping her intense gaze. “You will speak confidently to your husband, and anyone who addresses you. You will not, “she stressed, plucking Sansa hands away from her dress, “try to cover or hide yourself. Is that understood?”

Sansa picked up her chin and met Shae’s eyes, nodding. She would act like a woman, she would walk like she knew what men looked like bare and dress like one had seen her bare as well. She knew enough from her time in King’s Landing to know that the women that held power where the ones that held their femininity like a sword. 

“Yes Shae, I understand.” Shae loosed her grip and pulled Sansa into a hug, which she readily returned. Anyone giving her such a physical display of caring was rare, and it made that gesture all the more sweet. Shae pulled back and tucked an auburn strand of hair behind Sansa’s ear,

“Now, lets do something with this hair.”

 

* * *

Her hair was loosely braided, with only a few tendrils tumbling down her neck. Shae had decided that Sansa would be too tempted to hide herself if she left too much hair down, and with how her heart was fluttering with nerves, Sansa had to agree. 

She faced herself in the looking glass, and for a split moment did not recognize her reflection. For the last year she had been squeezing into the gowns that her father had bought on first arriving in King’s Landing. They where faded and childlike, but she had not thought on that much recently. But in this dress she looked completely different. Nearing on her 18th name day, she truly did look like a woman. Curves had filled out against her lips and stomach, her breasts where rounded and grown now, her face more angular. Sansa blushed at how obvious it now was, and how ignorant she had been of it. 

Shae moved towards the door and raised an inquisitive brow to her. Using shanking hands Sansa smoothed out her dress, resisting the urge to pull up her neckline, and walked towards the door. Shae pulled it open for her, and she walked through it, head high, shoulders back, until she heard a quick intake of breath behind her. She spun and came face to face with Sandor Clegane himself. 

“Remember,” she thought, “eye contact, confidence…”

“I-I’m going to meet with Lady Magaery now,” She said, holding his eyes with hers despite how she had to crane her neck to see them. His eyes slid off her to behind her, where she could sense Shae loitering. He looked back at her and gave a quick nod,  
“I’ll accompany you then, whether your handmaiden permits it or not” he said acidly shooting a glare at the handmaiden. Sansa’s bravery was running thin and she quickly turned on her heel and walked quickly down the corridor, aware of Sandor matching her pace a few feet behind. Shae had evidently stayed to clean out the room.

Confidence, bravery, femininity… come on, come on, come on… 

Sansa stopped abruptly and, confidence faltering, she spoke without turning around.

“My lord, may I speak to you before we go on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also yes, I am in full belief that Sandor heard her shout “Good gods I’m practically naked Shae!”, though it'll be up to you to imagine his thoughts on it :P
> 
> your comments make my day, please don't be silent! xx


	7. An Agreement of Sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the amazing feedback and thank you so much for reading xx

She was going to be the death of him.

Hells, he’d offered and sworn to die for her on multiple occasions. But he’d thought of death surrounded by blood, by a cold sword through the gut perhaps, a bludgeon to the head, with enemies sneering down on him and her name on his lips.

Not death by a bloody blue dress.

But so help him, Sandor Clegane was ready to give himself to the Stranger the moment he saw how the gold swallows soaring across her breast glittered like the bronze highlights of her hair. How he could trace her delicate blush from the tips of her ears, across her high cheeks and down so much more of her chest then he’d ever thought he’d see. Granted, he had seen it before when the Boy King had stripped her, yet those images of her where too broken and too horrid to ever see lust in. It was for the sadistic monarch to take pleasure in those attacks; they had made Sandor feel crushed and worthless. 

This was a Sansa he had yet to see. She showed herself with pride in this gown, if, Sandor allowed, with a little self-consciousness. The street cat lurked behind her, gently arranging the gossamer layers of skirts that drifted behind her lady. She glared at Sandor with a wary heat that he was all too happy to ignore. Sansa’s eyes where wide and her head was held in a upturned way that showed a unseen power, one he had glimpsed previously in small looks and bold moments that told him Sansa Stark was not the little bird he teased her as.

He had kept silent until then, he could swear to the mother that he had, but when she had arched her neck to glance down the corridor and he had seen her lithe neck framed by the early morning sun that danced in tendrils of falling auburn, he couldn’t help but pull in a gasp.

She flicked her head to him and the cool Tully blue eyes held his in a steadiness they had only had a few times in his knowing her. Sandor felt a jolt in his stomach at the unfamiliar sensation. It was a rare day that people looked beyond the scars into his eyes, it was rarer still for someone to not flinch away if they did. Though it took all he had in him not to smile when the vixen that had softened him to clay stuttered as she addressed him,

“I-I’m going to meet with Lady Magarey now,” she said, the façade cracking slightly. And seven hells have him, that trace of innocence in her prowess made him week at the knees. His eyes slipped from Sansa to the woman behind her shooting him daggers with dark eyes and viciously shaking her head. At what exactly he wasn’t sure, was she telling him not to go with her lady? Was she silently scolding him for his stares? Or was she condemning his presence in general? If it was any of that, or another of his offenses she hated him for, he couldn’t care less. He turned his gaze back to the woman in front of him. 

“I’ll accompany you then, whether your handmaiden permits it or not” He said, with a small nod.

Sandor was impressed she held her balance with the nervous speed she spun around, but she set out with a confident stride that was reminiscent of a stalking hunter. He felt a childish rush of snide happiness as he sent a smirk to the handmaiden that stood fuming from the doorway as he quickly followed the retreating Sansa. He took the moments of silence to watch that with each step the sky coloured dress danced over the toe of his shoe, diaphanous cloth skimming weathered leather. 

He was so hypnotized by this brief and entrancing contact that he had to take effort not to crash into her when her warriors stride stopped as suddenly as it had started. He grit his teeth against the pain of his armor digging into his joints by the sudden halt. 

“What in the hells has gotten into her?” his thoughts growled. She stood paralyzed, and just as he was about to slip out a snarl of annoyance when she spoke,

“My lord, may I speak to you before we go on?”

 

* * *

Her heart was crashing like an injured tourney horse and in this dress; Sansa was convinced Sandor would be able to see it thrashing against her ribs. She managed to keep her head raised when she turned around but couldn’t meet his eyes again. Instead she walked past him and into one the empty rooms that made up her husband’s complex suit of chambers. In her delicate brush past him she was ambushed by his scent, the strong smell of leather and silver polish, starched linen and sweat, citrus soaps and sour wine. And, gods, the heat that radiated off him. Sansa bit her lip against her blush and purposefully strode into the center of what seemed to be a study, or perhaps and council room. She stood with her shoulders pulled back and resisted the urge to pull at the dress. Instead she interlaced her hands over her front and, pulling on every reservoir of courage she could muster, stared down Sandor Clegane.

He followed her slowly, trepidation and curiosity jointly marking his movements. He took her challenge however, keeping his shadowed dark eyes trained on hers, as if daring her to look away from him.

“Well then?” he said, coming to a halt in front of her, his height becoming a prominent bother to Sansa. She wouldn’t be looked down on any more; by the mother and the seven she would end that today. The hound he may tower her physically but she wouldn’t cower like she had as a girl in those past years. She had seen the fury that sweltered inside him at those who feared him, even as those who respected him with the title ‘Ser’. Sansa could not have him as her shield and fear him.   
“Are you staying or not?” Sansa said, cursing a slight waver in her voice that let away her emotion. One of his heavy brows lifted,

“You asked me to stay,” He stated, as if it was an answer

“Yes... yes I did,” She replied, frustrated, “But are you going to?” A flicker in his eyes was too quick to read, and if Sansa hadn’t known better she’d call it humour,

“Aye, I am.” Gods he was so stoic sometimes she wanted to scream. She was as ignorant to his motives as she was to his emotions. Was she truly meant to accept that he stayed simply because she desired him to? There was no base in that claim, as she had no claim over him, no sway to his decisions. It was infinitely infuriating.

She let out a huff of resignation, and couldn’t hold in her tidal wave of thoughts any longer “Oh I’m-, I want to apologise, truly, I never meant for you to-, well, and know-, I’m so sorry My Lo-”

“Wait, slow down,” He interrupted her, frowning “you’re not making a lick of sense, Girl. Why are you apologising to me?”

Sansa stared at him in disbelief, “I’m apologising for getting you pulled into all this of course, I caused you to lose your position as the shield of the king, I-” 

“I had that coming for me the moment I told the King to go fuck himself at the battle of the black water” Sandor huffed unsmilingly, “and its him that decided to release me from my vows, not you. It was him that commanded I vow myself to you. So don’t go confessing to sins you don’t have little Bird, everyone has enough of their own without taking on false ones.”

Sansa stood in awed silence, she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard such reassuring and philosophical words from Sandor Clegane, she wasn’t even sure if she’d heard him say that many words at once before either. 

He seemed to squirm under her unwavering gaze, unused to such direct inspection. His expression hardened as he continued, “But let me ask a question now little bird,”

She nodded in consent, focusing on regulating her breathing, and trying to hide her ecstatic relief. Gods she would cry in relief at his forgiveness if she didn’t know how uncomfortable that would make him, she’d throw her arms around one of her only allies in this castle if she hadn’t been certain of his coarse rebuff. 

“Do you understand that I won’t be changing?” He said, his trade mark grow leaking back into his words, “I’ll still be me, I’ll still be coarse, and I’ll still be mean” he stressed, “Can you live with that girl?”

Sansa felt a flash of anger, and her euphoric relief was shattered. He scowled in the expression he held in court, lips pulled back in a way that contorted his scars into deeper shadows and more gnarled shapes. The moment of tenderness was gone and replaced with the face of The Hound. But in sudden realization Sansa saw what she had seen not before. All those times when he had confronted her like this he was trying to scare her, he was testing her. He was provoking her to push him away. For what purpose though, she could not fathom. But she won’t be scared now.

“Yes, I can,” She snapped back with all the venom she could muster. “But snarl at my enemies, be mean to those who raise their swords to me, but I swear by the seven if you keep on trying to scare me, this will never work, I need my shield to be my ally, not my predator,” She cut herself off, any more than that and the hot tears in her throat would give away how close his hostility had cut her.

She was proud however by the almost impressed look that spread over the face of Sandor Clegane. He rocked back on his heels and with a slight smirk on the edges of his lips he said,

“You’ve got a deal yourself, Little Bird”

“Well I-, well then,” She nodded to herself, slightly shocked. The Hound let out a chuckle and held out a shovel like hand. It took a moment to understand the gesture, a peasant custom; Sansa Stark had never shook hands in her life.

“Allies then, Girl?” Sandor joked. Rising to the challenge, Sansa slipped a petit hand into his callused one with a confident assurance despite its dwarfed appearance next to his own,

“Friends,” She smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm new to fic writing so please give me your thoughts on pacing/ dialogue/ etc as it would be extremely helpful xx
> 
> I'd like to pay my respects to the victims of the Orlando Shooting, their families and friends are in our thoughts #LoveWins


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